


Humidity Makes the Heart Grow Hotter

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Weather, Ben is the Voice of Reason, Bringing that Back from s3, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Neighbors, Castiel is a Sweetheart, Dean and Castiel are Both In Over Their Heads, Dean in Shorts, LOTR References, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Oh Yeah and Dean is a Christmas nerd, Single Parents, Small Talk, Thanksgiving/Christmas setting, moving in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 19:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8591431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: “Um, Uncle Cas—”“I see it, Claire.”“What should we do?”Cas lingers a little longer on the sight at the house across the street. The garage door is open, a sudsy ’67 Chevy Impala is parked in the driveway, and a man—no, not a man, Dean Friggin’ Winchester, is leaning over it like something out of an 80s hair metal music video minus the wispy blonde hair, in a black t-shirt and jean shorts that do an injustice of covering his muscular thighs.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays, guys! I am forever grateful this Thanksgiving for your unwavering love and support. *Dean voice*: "Don't ever change."

 

It’s something out of a D-lister horror movie. Castiel manages to hit the cliché-driven plot in one day: a not-so-nuclear family moving into a new house for a “fresh start”, only to uncover circumstances in which are both unnatural and unnecessary.

The only noticeable difference that separates Cas from being typecast is that he’s the one with the stark white paper bag over his head, both metaphorically and physically—and he’s a very tan man, if he says so himself.

That and he can visually see the source of his distress, which is a totally separate cliché from a Nicolas Sparks adaptation:

Dean Winchester, the boy next door—or man, more suitably, if the valleys of stippled muscle underneath his boyish face, Acid rock t-shirt, and equally acidized blue jeans Cas gets a taste of is anything to go by.

It’s after they both reach for their randomized fill of holiday catalogs packed with “limited-edition” things they can’t have (Dean because he already has the full package) and bills at the community mailbox that Dean peels the hem of his shirt back like a single piece of string cheese from a bar to wipe his forehead. And boy, with those jutting hipbones poking out from the top of his jeans more so than his bowlegs to top off the freckled abs, Cas has never related more to the weed next to him, wedged between a crack in the sidewalk.

“Man, for November, it sure isn’t cooling down as fast as I thought,” Dean says, fanning his stomach before dropping the shirt.

Cas feels like the most intelligent person to walk onto _Jeopardy_ who suffers from extreme stage fright. He knows how to talk to people—hell, he’s a social worker, he’s around people every day. But Dean, the man whose name Cas heard uttered from the tongue of his other neighbor, a man who Dean calls Benny over a lively conversation about this past Halloween, is, to throw another clichéd term into the effervescent cauldron pot of the film industry, different.

Cas just freezes, despite the humid weather.

Humidity!

“Yeah, some humidity we’re having,” Cas replies.

Humidity.

_Really?!_

Luckily, Dean laughs. Then again, that also does no favors for Cas’s heart, which pounds a little louder, because Dean’s laugh is deep and sincere and the color that comes to Dean’s cheeks is most likely from the weather, so no need to worry there. “Dean,” he says, lending out his hand. “Just a fair warning, my hand is sweatier than Santa trying to figure out how to maneuver through a closed chimney.”

Cas grants his body permission to ease a little on the tension, including the small smile that crosses his face, as he places his hand in Dean’s and shakes. “Cas,” he replies, “and please, I can’t even think about Christmas.”

“You just moved into the house across the street, right?”

“My niece and I, yes.”

Dean laughs again, only this time he shakes his head, “Man, good luck. It’s a beautiful house; it’s just more high maintenance than it needs to be.”

“Understatement. So you’re big on Christmas?”

A smile itches the right corner of Dean’s lip like Cas said something funny. “You could say that. Every year, my son and I set up a killer light show in our front yard. We’ve won first place in the city of Lawrence for three years straight. We’re going for our fourth win this December.”

Cas throws his head back, laughing, “Wow.”

“Yeah, we run an expensive Christmas ourselves between that and the gifts, but Ben,” Dean pauses wistfully before turning back to Cas, and that’s when Cas really notices the green of Dean’s eyes—like Christmas green, “I don’t know, seeing Ben’s eyes light up when we turn everything on for the first time makes it all worth it. Especially when there was a time when I thought I wasn’t going to make it to another Christmas.”

Cas’s mouth parts, but before he can try to find anything that probably wouldn’t alleviate the pain behind the statement anyway, Dean’s pocket buzzes. Dean pulls it out and a smile spreads across his face. “Speak of the devil,” he says, looking more intently at the phone with each consecutive buzz before looking back at Cas. “I better get back to the house. Teenagers, everything is an emergency. It was nice officially meeting you, Cas.”

“Y-yeah, you too,” Cas stammers as he watches Dean jog away, mail in hand, and wow, what a view.

Cas clears his throat once Dean’s almost out of sight, closes his mail slot, and starts walking towards his own home, not even noticing the Thanksgiving catalog he drops along the way.

***

“Ben, you’re grounded.”

“Please,” Ben scoffs without a thread of teenage annoyance Dean can sew with. “Dad, you don’t ground anything unless it’s going inside a tortilla.”

Dean opens his mouth and closes it just as quick. He can’t argue with that. His mom’s always been the enforcer, Dean just teaches Ben how to throw a left hook (which Ben used when he was seven to take back the Nintendo Dean bought for him, thank you very much).

“Besides, it’s not my fault you dropped a wrench on your foot,” Ben argues. “Maybe if you hadn’t been staring at the neighbor’s ass the whole time he was on his ladder, mine wouldn’t be hauling off to my room!”

Dean stutters through a sigh as he crosses his arms lamely, the image from a few minutes ago still clear as the water spraying out from the sprinkler head he just replaced, “Ben, I’m too old for arguing, alright?” he says, silently praying for the neighborhood stray cat with the cinnamon tail and a penchant for puree peaches to zip through the door any second and snatch his tongue.

“Dad, you’re thirty-seven. And what the hell’re you talking about?"

“Watch it.”

“Last week you were set on convincing me _Sméagol_ was _Gollum’s_ blotted alter ego.”

“It’s all in the eyes!”

“Finally! Now we’re on the same page!” Ben exclaims, throwing up his arms before letting them fall onto the railing of the stairs. With him up there and Dean on the bottom floor, their roles feel oddly switched. “That’s all you’ve done today is gawk at the guy! It’s not like you’re planning to slip the _One Ring_ on his finger any time soon, so what’s the big deal?”

But how could Dean _not_ gawk when he saw him at the mailbox this morning with eyes as big and blue as… well, as Gollum’s, but that doesn’t translate into romance well unless the person on the receiving end can recite Aragorn’s acceptance speech by heart. So instead, Cas’s eyes are like the pool water in the backyard during summertime when Dean’s standing on the edge of the dip in the hot concrete: His eyes, glossed over by the sunlight, shine and glint in his face while Dean’s just trying to take the plunge to avoid scorching his heels. And those lips, that must feel like jumping ass-first into a floaty.

For now, Dean can dip his toe in, test his balance more than the water itself.

Not like he’d ever be caught in a situation with his shirt completely off, but metaphorically speaking.

That he can do.

That he can do.

***

Cas can't do it.

Dean, who mows his lawn in a sleeveless shirt, pushing the mower along with the combined efforts of both boulders trapped beneath his biceps, may be content, but Cas refuses to stand by and watch.

Instead, he just... casually glances over every so often as he waters the gardenias along his house.

Then Dean lifts his head to wipe his sweat-slick forehead, and waves to Cas.

Though her voice is muffled on the other side as she pushes away the curtains, the hard slap of Claire’s hand against the double-pane is a reminder that, oh yeah, Cas is still standing there, wasting water on the window while watching Dean watching him with those eyes as green as the grass beneath the other man’s feet.

Cas quickly averts the hose, but Dean’s already laughing before picking up where he left off on the lawn.

***

It’s official: Dean’s stuck in a chick-flick.

God, he hates chick-flicks.

In all fairness, everything about him is adorable, from the tired black and yellow tennis shoes he’s sporting, one of which has a sole that flaps when he digs his heel into the crook of the blade and pushes down with a grunt. Then there’s the way his pre-messy dark hair, curled at the tips from the sweat of shoveling, kisses his forehead with every thrust, his lips parted just right—

Okay, maybe this is a softcore porno.

“Hey, Dean?” Dean, still white-knuckling the rake, throws his head back and around him. Cas laughs, and it sounds like something rooted in bliss, “Yes, you. Can you help me plant this tree? The pot’s a little heavy.”

And it just upgraded to a hardcore porno.

“I, uh… yeah, sure,” Dean replies smoothly, jogging across the thin layer of asphalt separating them, and _wow_ , seeing Cas up close and personal for the first time in two weeks is as overwhelming as his musk—spearmint, perspiration, and a dash of aftershave, a combo that can’t be purchased off just any dollar menu.

He clears his throat and does his best to balance his gaze between the potted tree and the hole in the ground, “Alright, on three? I lift, place it in, and you shovel?”

“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds like you’re doing all the work,” Cas replies, winking. Dean gulps.

“So, uh… nice time of day to plant a tree.”

Weather talk.

_Really?!_

“Yeah, usually Claire would be helping me, but she’s at the mall with a guy named Reese.”

Dean raises his eyebrows.

A pause. “No,” Cas gasps. “You don’t think.”

Dean uses the tree to disguise the blush on his face. Cas is cute when he’s in shock. “You’re right, I don’t.”

Once they’re done, Dean stands back, silently admiring the partnership of man and nature. Being a firefighter, Dean’s only ever seen the death and destruction of nature, but this is—

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Cas says. “I’m more of a people person myself, but nature is exquisite.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, looking towards Cas, whose gaze is still fixed on the tree, _really_ looking, and for the first time in a long time, he feels his guard, a seven-foot tall Buckingham palace soldier, come down, “it is, isn’t it?”

***

“Um, Uncle Cas—”

“I see it, Claire.”

“What should we do?”

Cas lingers a little longer on the sight at the house across the street. The garage door is open, a sudsy ’67 Chevy Impala is parked in the driveway, and a man—no, not a man, Dean Friggin’ Winchester, is leaning over it like something out of an 80s hair metal music video minus the wispy blonde hair, in a black t-shirt and jean shorts that do an injustice of covering his muscular thighs. He soaks it in like the sponge occupying Dean’s hand before striding across the driveway. “Claire, go to your room.”

“What?” she asks, “Why—? _Oh.”_

***

"I was diagnosed with Stage III Breast Cancer in February, a month after my thirty-seventh birthday. The doctors said I had a good chance of pulling through, but there’s always the 'if' factor. They said it was hereditary, but I think it was the obstinacy that was hereditary. My mom, you know, she was the same way. If she was breathing, she was healthy.”

Dean looks up at the ceiling. To his surprise, the soft, sparkly pads on the backs of Cas’s fingers continue their light ministrations on his chest, just below the pinkish scar where his left nipple used to be. Dean’s gotten used to less feeling in his breast, but it’s something in the way Cas touches him here. The ‘Handle with Care’ sticker hasn’t gotten buried underneath all the other shipping labels yet, and he’s not just dumping the package on the doorstep: He has the right amount of gentleness and compassion.

“But hey, I came out in one piece,” Dean adds, drawing Cas closer with his arm. “Well… almost one piece. Sorry, is that a little heavy for a hookup?" Dean asks, only half-joking, because in his mind, he’s already envisioning how awkward seeing Cas across the street is going to be from now on. Cas won’t be casting shy glances at Dean anymore, and if he does, it’s going to be to gawk in the most unflattering ways.

He’s not ready to look at Cas, though. Not yet.

Luckily, Cas does that for him. Forget the pool analogy, Dean feels like he’s being enveloped by the cool ocean the way Cas has his stubbled chin propped on Dean’s torso, staring up at him. There’s no judgment in his eyes, no pity, only confusion. "Who said this was a hookup?"

Dean feels his heart speed up, pumping blood back into his cheeks. "You're serious?"

"I dunno..."

"Jeez, Cas, way to make a girl feel special."

"I don't know, but I _do_ know," Cas says, sitting up, his eyes never leaving Dean’s, “we all have something that keeps us at arms’ length from the people we care about.” A pause. “Drunk driver, September 12, 2009. Claire lost both her parents. I lost a brother and a sister. It took years for us to finally talk, but when we did, it just felt like I could breathe again, you know?”

Dean bites his lip. “My ex-wife basically had enough of me, and I couldn’t blame her. I was a grade-A dick. She moved to the other side of town a couple weeks later. But she wasted no time driving back here to the old house when I asked if she could come with me to my doctor’s appointment.”

Dean’s smiling now, blinking back tears. “I felt the same way,” he adds hoarsely, “breathing again, I mean. This scar over my heart did that for me.”

Cas’s smile is fit for a two-page magazine spread. He straddles Dean, cradles his face, and kisses him. Dean kisses back, leaning up and into it.

“Mmm, so about that hookup,” Dean mumbles against his lips.

Cas laughs, this time taking the time to map out Dean's body, starting with his chest, "I don’t know,” he repeats, “but I do know that I want to remind you the upside of being alive every, mhhmm—" He drops bright red stickers along the way onto landmarks that elicit the most reaction out of Dean, that way he can revisit them later: one of them being in-between his breasts, causing him to latch onto Cas’s hair with both hands and moan. “—Day.”

“I can, uh- _ah, shit-_ I can get behind that.”

***

Cas helps Dean win his fifth light show the following Christmas.

But, in all fairness, it _is_ his house too—their house, all four of them, and a fifth on the way.

The ribbon hangs next to the mistletoe above the front door. Dean gives him permission to kiss him draping his flannel scarf around Cas’s shoulders. Dean’s lips are soft and spongey like fruitcake, and it feels like the first time, when Cas crowded him against the side of the Impala and kissed him senseless before dragging them both inside. It always does.

Cas is surprised their lips don’t get stuck together. It’s a cold one this time around.

Luckily they have each other to keep warm.

“Merry Christmas,” Dean says, pulling back with a broad smile.

“Yeah,” Cas replies, looping his arms around Dean’s neck as he looks at his husband— _really_ looks at him, and rivals him with an even wider smile, “it is, isn’t it?”  


End file.
